


Just in Time - The Sequel

by addicted2hugh



Series: Just in Time [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Fluff, Kissing, M/M, Morning Sex (Not Explicit), POV John Watson, POV Third Person, Past Mary Morstan/John Watson, Post-Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-14
Updated: 2018-10-14
Packaged: 2019-07-29 22:54:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,416
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16274042
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/addicted2hugh/pseuds/addicted2hugh
Summary: The morning after. Sherlock is back, but John's mind has trouble catching on.





	Just in Time - The Sequel

When John wakes up in the early hours of yet another chilly London morning, he doesn't remember the day before.

He feels simultaneously restless and strangely knackered, his mind grappling for a hold on reality while at the same time hesitating to leave the comforting emptiness of sleep.

He does remember the very, _very_ pleasant dream he had, so he keeps his lids closed and revels in the tender, warm feeling lingering in his stomach while burying his face in his pillow to keep out his surroundings – the bleary sunlight filtering in through the curtains, his bedroom, his girlfriend, his real life – for as long as possible. He's not ready to face it all yet.

He dreamed that Sherlock came back from the dead ( _ridiculous_ ). He dreamed about shock and fear and Sherlock's arms around his body, about happiness that surpassed anything he'd ever known before, and about the delicate touch of a soft mouth against his own. Sherlock's mouth. Sherlock's pliant lips opening for him, his tongue, so shy and sweet, nudging John's, the low hum of his deep, velvety voice. 

His knees tremble even in the horizontal as he thinks about what this voice does to him, the mere memory of it enough to make his pulse flutter in his throat and heat pool in his loins.

In his dream, he had sex with Sherlock again, but this time it felt a lot like _making love_ – slow, careful, and much gentler than it had ever been before.

Even though reminiscing feels bittersweet (Sherlock is, after all, gone, and John is never going to touch him like that) and John is still ashamed of the forbidden visions he allows into his head, he finds, to his own immense surprise, that he doesn't want to forget. Not this time. It was too beautiful.

It felt too real.

A small sigh quite close to his ear startles him out of his musings and he feels the solid weight and warmth of another body shift closer to his own.

_Mary._

Stifling a sound of regret, he takes a deep, silent breath and readies himself to let go. It's over now. Today is going to mark the beginning of a new life, and he'll just clench his teeth and follow through with it. He takes his dream and what's left of it (arousal, comfort, _love_ ) and wraps it up and hides it away deep down inside his heart, in the place where he stores his most treasured memories, determined not to let it fade. However silly, however irrational or shameful clinging on to this may be – he's going to keep this. Just this one. 

As soon as he's sure that his face is not going to betray him and his churned-up emotions, he turns his head and opens his eyes, still caught in a strange limbo between pleasure and guilt.

 

Sherlock---

_smiles_.

 

And it all comes crashing back down on John, so suddenly that it makes him feel lightheaded for a moment.

…

Sherlock, back at Baker Street.

Sherlock. Is. Back---

Panic! Relief. Kisses.

_Kisses!_

Sherlock's scent all around him. Sherlock's hands in his hair. Tears.

_I need you. I want you._

The flat. Everything still there. His chair. The couch. The microscope.

Talking.

Tea.

More tears.

So many questions. Anger. Hurt. Confessions. Answers.

Forgiveness.

Sherlock at the window, looking down on him, his palm against the glass. Yearning for him.

_I'll be back soon._

Mouthing the words, his heart bursting with love.

Mary, crying.

_I'm so sorry. So sorry._

Packing a bag.

Walking through the rain, blindly, not feeling the cold, only one thing on his mind.

Sherlock, kissing him again. Holding him.

_I'll never let you go again._

Making dinner.

Making love.

_I adore you._

Sherlock's eyes, wet and wide open, then heavy-lidded and unfocused.

Breathing together.

Falling asleep in each other's arms.

_Sherlock._

…

Sherlock is smiling, and it's the most gorgeous thing John has ever seen.

Sherlock looks completely at ease with himself, more open and relaxed than John has ever seen him before, and John goes through his collection of the other man's smiles and finds not a single one that is exactly like the one he's giving him now.

This is not like the relieved smile they shared after talking it all through yesterday, after crying and shouting and finally _accepting_ , after understanding each other and each other's ways of dealing with the issues that were out of their hands at the time (going into hiding for almost two years; making wedding plans).

It's not like the pink-cheeked, flustered smirk tugging at the corners of Sherlock's mouth as they stumbled into his bedroom after dinner, joined at the lips, hands twisting in offending fabric that needed to go, and _fast_ , because there was burning skin underneath that needed to be touched and explored.

And it's not like the achingly blissful grimace of passion and release on Sherlock's face when John held him close and kissed his brow and guided him through the aftershocks of a climax that, from the looks of it, had shaken him to his very core.

Sherlock's smile is younger now, softer somehow, and so pure that John wants to cry.

"Good morning, John," Sherlock rumbles, gazing at him from under half-closed lids that only reveal mere slivers of his mesmerising light-blue irises.

At hearing him say his name, his tone so very obviously tinged with love and longing, John's heart takes a leap.

"Good morning," he answers in a low murmur, not daring to disturb the serene mood of the moment by raising his voice. "Were you watching me in my sleep?"

Sherlock reaches out and runs his fingertips along John's temple, then into his hair, and a lovely little shiver trickles down John's spine.

"I was just trying to convince myself that you're really here," Sherlock replies softly, and a slight hue of embarrassed redness appears high up on his cheekbones.

His stomach tingling with affection, John leans his head into Sherlock's touch and enjoys the heat of his skin seeping into his own.

"Same," he whispers. "To be honest, I thought it was all just a beautiful dream. I thought---"

He breaks off. Telling his best friend, his new _lover_ , that he thought he was lying in bed with his now ex-girlfriend when he woke up doesn't seem like such a great idea.

Sherlock's smile fades into a more serious expression and John can tell he knows, but he's relieved to see that he doesn't look upset. He looks wistful.

"It's not a dream," Sherlock simply says, apparently as much to himself as to John.

Then he draws John in for a kiss, and despite their slightly stale morning breath and a small confusion over which nose is supposed to go in which direction, John thinks that it's perfect.

 _It's_ not _a dream_ , he tells himself.

_I can keep this._

In a flash-forward vision that pops up in the back of his head, John sees himself and Sherlock and the life they'll reclaim for themselves. They'll start right here, with this lopsided kiss.

They'll kiss until their lips are sore and their air runs out and the only taste left inside their mouths is them, together. They'll kiss in this bed, and across the cluttered breakfast table, and on the couch, their chairs, the stairs. In cabs and dark alleys. They'll keep going until two years of pain have been kissed away.

How often does life give you a second chance? How often do dreams turn out to be true?

John wonders if they'll ever make up for all the words they never said, but then Sherlock gently bites down on his bottom lip and slides his whole front against his side, and John sinks into him, the only thought left inside his brain being that this is real, and that it's going to be alright.

They keep Sherlock's back out of the way, learning each other all over again, and it's much better than any dream could ever be. 

Afterwards, they doze off in a tangle of arms and legs, minds blank and bodies warm and heavy, and when he comes back to his senses after a while, John knows that he's in Sherlock's bed right away. It smells like life, like ecstasy. Like safety and trust and _home_.

He watches Sherlock's peaceful face and brushes away a stray curl that has fallen across his closed lids.

Sherlock stirs and slowly opens his eyes.

And smiles.

 

_The end._


End file.
